


Applause, Applause, Applause

by MajorTrouble



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Gen, Jaskier mostly knows what he's doing, Magic, Tumblr Prompt, explains everything, gratuitous use of the word fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23940640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: Tumblr prompt: How about a deaged Jaskier who is nothing like Geralt and Yen expect him to be like? (I’m just imagining like a frighteningly competent 10 year old jaskier and neither geralt or Yennefer know what to do with him
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 16
Kudos: 330





	Applause, Applause, Applause

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr prompt! I had a stupid amount of fun with this one. There may be room for multiple chapters later. Thank-you for this prompt and I hope y'all like it. As always, your sweet works and kudos mean the world to me. <3

It had been a few months since Geralt and Jaskier had travelled together, but they’d agreed to meet up in the village of Valleyforge for the late summer festival. Then they could spend the next season together to refresh Jaskier’s store of “tragic and terrible tales of brave Witcher deeds!”, as he put it, and then make their way to Kaer Morhen to spend the winter. The bard was especially excited to finally be allowed the privilege of wintering in the Witcher stronghold. Although he was pretty sure it was equal parts anxiety and elation. 

Placating one broody Witcher was practically a full-time job. The prospect of trying to befriend a castle full of them without getting snapped at - at best - or stabbed - at worst - filled him with worry. But he’d shrugged it off. He could handle this. He hoped. 

However, in the intervening months before the summer festival, certain problems had arisen. Namely, he’d been kidnapped - bardnapped? - held for ransom (like his father would actually pay for his return) and then, when the mage hadn’t gotten what he’d wanted, chained to a wall and made to play ridiculously sappy ballads. As if that hadn’t been enough, a rival mage, invited to the keep in stiff formality, and in some odd form of one-up-manship, had drugged Jaskier and spirited him away to _his_ keep and locked him in the dungeon. 

If the whole thing hadn’t been kind of terrifying and he hadn’t been certain his life was about to end at any moment, Jaskier would have been highly amused. As it were, he decided that if he survived, he could probably get a pretty good song out of it. 

The drugs the second mage had given him had been very odd. They’d seemed to shrink his limbs somehow. He was able to slip through the chains clamped around his wrist and ankle and be dragged from the keep. They’d made his head so fuzzy he didn’t remember much else until awakening in the cold, clammy dungeon, and then been glad of the oversized clothing they’d apparently given him. He’d huddled in the corner, trying not to cry. 

Eventually he was dragged to the hall of this second mage and made to perform. They’d given him nicer clothes to wear and an oversized lute. He’d been too distracted by that to pay much attention at first, but after tuning the lute and strumming through some lovely easy pieces, he’d opened his mouth to sing. 

Well. That couldn’t possibly be his voice. The sound had been high, much higher than his normal singing voice, and completely clear. There was no richness to the timbre. No indication of the years of training he’d put into it. He’d clamped his mouth shut, confused, and the mage had started laughing. The man had gotten up, and walked towards him and it was only then that he realized the other was towering over him. He looked more critically at his hands and arms and his mouth gaped open in sudden shock and realization.

Whatever had been in the drink had made him younger. MUCH younger. Judging by how far he came up on the mage’s waist, he’d guess he was the same height as when he was nine or ten. And that was a terrible, sobering thought. 

The mage had continued to laugh, so Jaskier had done what any other ten-year-old faced with an embarrassing situation would do and stomped on his foot. Whilst the mage howled in pain, Jaskier fled the hall.

He had no idea how he’d escaped. Smaller, and much more agile, he’d zig zagged through the handful of guards. At the half-open gate, he’d swung the lute at the last guardsman standing there and hit the man directly in the groin, dropping him to the ground like a stone. The lute had creaked ominously but stayed in one piece, so he’d held on to it and continued running as quickly as he could away from the keep. 

After the initial shock, and realizing that the spell or whatever wasn’t going to wear off, he’d headed into the nearest village. Using his new-found child-like demeanor, he charmed his way into a free bowl of stew and a spot to sleep by the fire in the village inn. He’d played for his supper the next night, and the one after that, and soon gotten enough coin to keep going. Everyone was summarily impressed by the extremely talented ten-year-old bard. 

And so he’d spent the next two months, making his way to Valleyforge before the summer festival. Because if he knew one thing, it was that Geralt would probably be able to figure out how to reverse this strange affliction. And if not him, well, he was sure he could get Yennefer to help.

Maybe. 

If she wasn’t too amused by the whole situation. 

He sighed, sitting as close to the fire in the cozy inn at the heart of Valleyforge as he could without getting singed. That was the other thing about looking and feeling like he was a child - he got cold much easier. The innkeeper here had not been as taken with his pleading eyes as the last one and had insisted on him playing for a couple of hours before even considering giving him food. He shivered. This was ridiculous. 

The late afternoon sun shifted through the windows slowly as the crowd of patrons expanded. The volume level rose with it and Jaskier had to concentrate harder to make a dent in the noise. He’d gathered an appreciative enough audience around him though. Once he finished his last song, they clapped politely and he smiled, making sure to show his dimples. This always got him a few extra coins, especially from the more matronly of the guests. Finally, the innkeeper brought him some stew and he wolfed it down quickly, using the hunk of coarse bread she gave him to scrape the remainder of the broth off the inside of the bowl and shove it in his mouth. 

He waited a while longer, feeling the food warm him from the inside before starting back up again. He couldn’t play anything particularly bawdy - people gave him odd, often embarrassed looks - but he could impress them with quick fingerwork across the frets of the lute and incite them to sing along as he danced from table to table. He had to admit, being small and nimble had its advantages. And people were all together much nicer to him now. 

He probably shouldn’t read too much into that. 

After a few hours, he took a break. This body did tend to get tired more easily. He’d managed to get enough coin for a room, but he decided to just sit by the fire for a bit first. It was so lovely and warm, curled up in the chair. He wrapped himself around his lute in case someone tried to steal it and fell asleep.

Something pulled him out of sleep slowly. He could hear someone having a conversation right next to him, in hushed tones. Opening one eye blearily, he tried to focus on the faces swimming in his vision. That wasn’t working, so he pulled himself upright, yawning hugely and settling the lute across his lap, rubbing the remaining sleep from his eyes. The conversation stopped and he felt vaguely annoyed, but he could finally get his eyes to stop watering and actually look at the two people sitting opposite him. He perked up almost instantly. 

“Geralt! Oh, fucking finally! Am I glad to see you! And Yennefer! Terrifying as ever,” he piped up happily, planting his elbows on the table and setting his chin in his hands. “I see you have questions.” He smiled at them cheerfully.

Both Witcher and sorceress looked slightly taken aback at being addressed with such familiarity by a ten-year-old boy and stole quick glances at each other before either of them spoke. 

Geralt cleared his throat, looking decidedly embarrassed. “Are you - _related_ to Jaskier?” he hazarded, pausing in the middle as he seemed to search for the right word. 

Jaskier looked at him blankly for a minute before turning to stare at Yennefer. “Is he, perhaps, short of a marble?” he asked, dropping his hands to the table in disbelief.

The Witcher shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “You smell like him, but you’re not him,” he managed to growl out. “So who - or what - are you?” His eyes had narrowed and now it was Jaskier’s turn to be taken aback. 

He sat up straighter in his chair. “Bollocks,” he deadpanned. 

Yennefer choked on a laugh.

He sighed, plucking desolately at the lute as he thought about it. “So, would you believe it’s actually me? And that I got drugged by a mage - well, a couple of mages - and now I’m stuck like this, and I was sort of hoping one of you could fix it because, let’s be honest, no one wants to succumb to the wiles of a ten-year-old?” 

Yennefer’s shoulders were shaking as she tried not to make a sound. Geralt was still looking at him like he wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. Jaskier was just about at his wit’s end. 

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt!” he practically yelled, voice high and desperate as he threw his arms out wide in entreaty. “What’s it going to take for you to believe me?” 

He regarded the - _boy_ his mind supplied - for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest and grunting in thought. “Hmm. What’s the first thing I ever said to you?”

Jaskier looked at him incredulously for a full count of thirty before he started laughing so hard tears streamed down his face. “Are you being serious right now?” he managed to get out once he’d calmed down enough to get words out again. Geralt looked affronted at being laughed at by a boy, especially since they had attracted the bemused looks from several patrons. 

“If you two have quite finished?” Yennefer interjected, one perfect eyebrow raised in question. Geralt just tucked his chin further into his chest, scowling down at the table so hard Jaskier was convinced he was trying to light it on fire through the sheer force of his glare. 

The bard, on the other hand, looked up at Yennefer, opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it when she smiled coldly at him. He swallowed, a high blush colouring his cheeks. 

“Good. Now, Geralt, I’m almost certain that this is actually Jaskier. We’ll just have to do a little test.”

“A test?” Jaskier squeaked. He blushed even harder at the sound of his own voice. He’d forgotten how irritating being this young was. The voice alone drove him up the wall.

She nodded. “Give me your hand.” Her smile softened a little as he obliged her. “Now look into my eyes.”

“Oh - kay,” he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut before looking back up into her violet-coloured ones. It felt kind of like falling upwards. His entire vision became enveloped in hers, that crystalline purple spreading out and taking over everything he could see. 

Time lost all meaning. He felt warm, and not a little like he was drunk. After an interminable interval, he blinked and found himself tucked into a bed, covers pulled up to his chin, everything smelling of fresh linens and lavender. As his brain tried to catch up with the rest of him, he could hear the murmur of voices and he imagined himself in his room at home, back on his family’s estate. 

That thought shocked his system so badly he sat bolt upright, teeth clenched around a scream. However, a short, sharp, “No!” escaped his mouth before he could stop it. 

“Jaskier?” a familiar voice asked gently, somewhere off to his right. 

He flinched, hard, his whole body recoiling before he could stop it. “Fuck,” he whispered, forcing himself to relax and turn towards the voice. “Uh, hi. So. I’m guessing you believe me now?” 

Geralt nodded. “Hmm.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Try not to be so articulate, someone will mistake you for the bard,” she groused. She turned to address Jaskier. “Your memories are all intact. I’m not sure what that hack used to reverse your age down to a prepubescent boy, but it worked. And it worked surprisingly well.”

“Yes, I figured that part out. Can you reverse it?” 

She exchanged a glance with Geralt. 

“Aw fuck,” Jaskier said. “I’m stuck like this?”

“No. You just have to - age naturally.” He could see Yennefer’s lips quirk as she said, “You might want to stop swearing so much. Where are your manners?”

Jaskier looked between her and Geralt. “Fuck off.”


End file.
